


A Smile Like Hers

by thewinterspy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Depression, F/M, Mentions of hostage situations, Miscarriage, PTSD, Stillbirth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-09
Updated: 2013-12-09
Packaged: 2018-01-04 03:45:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1076158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewinterspy/pseuds/thewinterspy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He sees Donovan and Anderson glancing at him out of the corners of their eyes, and hates it. Everyone else does it, but the pair of them used to stare at him like a dictator they despised. Now he's nothing but a wounded dog at their feet. Poor Sherlock Holmes, him and Molly taken hostage. One of those blokes that Holmes had put away, y'know? Wanted some revenge. The poor couple.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Smile Like Hers

**Author's Note:**

> I... invested a lot of time writing this story and I'm super glad I'm finally able to share it with you all. I may not be happy with how it looks, and it may not make me happy, because the context is intense, but after spending so long working on it you kinda feel good just to let it off your chest? If that makes sense, of course. I hope you find it to be a good read, and don't forget to comment. :)

The rain's falling, droplets sinking from dark clouds onto the earth. It's a little colder, perhaps enough for a scarf, but not quite. Just rain, falling rain. It lands in the gutters of small houses, pouring down pipes into quaint gardens below. Cascading off roofs to block doors with city muck. It muddles the vision of the already miserable view from the office window, sliding colours together until everything was a pale gray.

 

"I'm glad you finally took John's offer,"

 

The therapist leans forwards, pink cardigan-covered elbows resting against the clipboard. Already written notes down, making deductions, clever woman, though not clever enough, especially if she thought John Watson had a limp. Wedding ring, recently cleaned, happy marriage. Mother of two, no - just the one very social child, a girl, plenty of friends that come over. After school. That's what children did, didn't they? Well. How would he know.

 

When she gets no response from him, Thompson sighs, and leans back. Psychologists know a difficult client when they see them, and he must have been easy to spot from across a street.

 

"Why today?"

 

"Why not?" his voice is rough from not speaking. Not for days now.

 

"You've been quite adamant in not coming,"

 

"I'm not in denial about it, if that's what you're thinking. I don't need to say it,"

 

All he got was a chin tipping up, just slightly. He rolls his eyes in response, and snaps, "If you're going to write it down, just do it,"

 

"Let's forget about the clipboard-"

 

"I will when you do,"

 

A single eyebrow goes up. Good. He's getting on her nerves. It reminds him that how capable he is of cruelty, and he simply revels in it. His mouth curls up one way as she, deliberately, holds out the clipboard, and lets it clatter to the ground beside her chair.

 

"Clipboard gone. It's just you and me," Thompson folds her hands on top of her crossed legs.

 

"Great," he deadpans, but she quickly cuts him off.

 

"How's Molly?"

 

He stares at her, and stares at her, and wonders if he could get away with strangling her. Slowly, inching second by second, he places his hands on the armrests and tips forwards. Nearly a snarl, he tells her, "No."

 

"Then why do we bother with this?" her voice has an edge to it. Doing her best to regain her composure without giving away visual signs, she settles back against her chair and continues with a gentler voice, "It isn't going to be easy. For her, and also for you. I understand... if you feel that you're not getting as much support but-"

 

"I am fine," he hisses, his fingers digging into the chair.

 

She sighs, and leans in on her own knees. She's a good five feet away from him still, but it's suddenly too much, and he needs-

 

Needed to breathe-

 

He hears the therapist making hushing sounds, reminding him to breathe. He breathes through his mouth, the air clogging in his throat continuously until it manages to get into his lungs, a cold blade against the tender flesh.

 

"What happened?"

 

"The-"

 

"You need to get it out."

 

"The-"

 

He squeezes his eyes shut, and buries his hands in his hair, curling so that his forehead rests on his knees. His breath cuts the air as a sharp gasp.

 

"What's happening?" he asks, begging to know. His voice sounds wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong-

 

He feels a hand gently taking his left wrist, and realizes that he'd been rocking. He stops, every muscle in his body shrinking beneath the skin, hot underneath his clothes, hot on his face-

 

"You're crying, Sherlock."

 

A breath sputters out of him, sounding wet and entirely unlike him. The hand on his wrist does not tighten or loosen, and does not attempt to pull his hand away from his hair. Slowly, he starts to rock again, pushing his head into the grip, his toes pushing him back and forth gently in his seat.

 

"You need to say it. It will help."

 

"Nothing will. Nothing can." His voice is muffled, desperate.

 

"It will help you. And through you, Molly."

 

He gasps out, "Nothing can fix this,"

 

"Sherlock..."

 

"Nothing can bring the baby back."

 

* * *

 

 

His days go like this. He showers. He dresses. He leaves the flat. He always leaves for the staircase through the door in the kitchen. When he forgets and has to collect his coat from the coat hook, he goes through the flat's door and down the steps in a rush, as if there was a sniper waiting on the landing up to the other floor, ready to shoot him down. But he's usually smart, and remembers to leave his coat on the kitchen table's chair. He goes on walks. Walks around London, because it's been forever since he's refreshed the maps in his head. Sometimes, if he can't walk any further, he paces the same street again and again. Because even when he can't walk, he needs to.

 

Lestrade usually finds him. Shuffles him into a police car, and shoves some food in his face. Lestrade doesn't start the vehicle until he takes at least a bite. They go to Scotland Yard, and he puts cases in front of Sherlock. Whether it's a one or a ten, Sherlock works through them. He sits at a desk, an actual desk, and he works. He works. And works. And he... he _has_ to. Everything about him is there, and he isn't empty. It would be so much easier if he felt empty, he thinks. But he isn't. He is himself, buried in cement.

 

He tries. None of them know how hard he tries. He spent thirty five years of his life not trying, so he's not very good at it, but the fact that he's even attempting to make a crack in the stone, to be... open again, is a miracle and they don't even know it. He sees Donovan and Anderson glancing at him out of the corners of their eyes, and hates it. Everyone else does it, but the pair of them used to stare at him like a dictator they despised. Now he's nothing but a wounded dog at their feet. _Poor Sherlock Holmes, him and his wife taken hostage. One of those blokes that Holmes had put away, y'know?  Wanted some revenge. Put them away for three weeks in a cellar. Lost their baby too, a miscarriage, forced on Molly. The poor couple._ Poor them. Poor Sherlock. He hates hearing it. He hates seeing it. He hates them so damn much. He knows that he wants to insult them, to tear them down and remind them who is the ruler of Scotland Yard, but he doesn't speak. Not any more, and at the very least not often.

 

He talks to Lestrade, to catch him up on his deductions. If there's any legwork to be done, someone is sent out. Sherlock Holmes is a proper consultant to the police. It makes him want to cry, but his chest is too heavy to heave out another sob.

 

If he gets close to his brink, Lestrade knows. Lestrade drives him home early, but otherwise, gets him in the car by 17:00 sharp. He used to argue like a child. Five more minutes. He's given up fighting, pushing for what he wants, and he knows that it breaks the D.I.'s heart. He gets driven home, and a baggie is placed in his hands.

 

"Have a good night," Lestrade always orders him, "Call if you need anything."

 

On bad days, he slams the door on Lestrade. Once, he managed to spit out a "Thank you." for shutting the thing.

 

He enters his flat without looking back. He goes up the stairs. Sometimes he runs into Mrs. Hudson. Coming out of her flat, coming down from his. He doesn't acknowledge her anymore. He means to, he does, he really does, but he's so focused on taking care of one thing at a time that he can't face her. Not properly. Not yet. It's still too soon.

 

He goes through the kitchen door and sets the bag given to him on the table. He keeps his coat on, and steps to the edge of the kitchen. He looks into the living room, and it's simultaneously the best and worst part of his day. The best, because for a moment, he shuts down so thoroughly that he doesn't feel a single thing. The worst, because he shuts down. The worst, because he finds the only person he wants to talk to is silent. The worst, because he's reminded of the day that the light in Molly Hooper's eyes died.

 

She moves around the room. Sometimes she'll be at the desk, typing away with chicken pecking at the laptop. Sometimes, she'll be sitting in his chair, watching tv. Most of the time, she's lying on the couch. She never sits in her chair, at least not when he gets home, because that would mean her back is to him. She doesn't trust him. He doesn't blame her.

 

He doesn't speak to her. Just makes sure she's there, even though she shouldn't be, she should be gone, gone, gone, gone, gone, gone, gone, gone, gone, she's gone, she's gone, he's too late, he's too late, he can't see her, only her screams, the piercing sound of a baby, no, no, the baby, not the baby, please, no, _no, **NO-**_

 

The attacks don't happen always. Rarely, really. They hit when he's at the brink. Just as he tips over the maximum he is capable of, he falls and doesn't hit pavement, but the memories, the sounds, the words he couldn't believe, he doesn't believe, he can't believe. They make his ears buzz, and his vision swirl, and he usually can't keep himself on his feet. When he does fall, Mrs. Hudson comes up the stairs to help him up. Sometimes she helps him to his feet, or helps him into a chair. And sometimes, she stays on the floor with him, and wraps her arms around him, and breathes with him. Molly stands at the door and watches, looking as if it's all her fault. He knows he says things, but for the life of him cannot remember what he says, and he doesn't want to. He knows it doesn't matter, because she never replies.

 

He hasn't heard Molly speak for six months now.

 

Most days, he manages to stay on his feet, and he unpacks the bag that Lestrade gives him. Supper, for him and the missus. Lestrade had discovered that, for a good month, the pair of them had had consecutively nothing to eat, and apparently needed to be force fed.

 

(Lestrade had at first expected the pair of them to make the effort to feed themselves. Molly never moves unless she has to, so Sherlock had tried to make dinner, and nearly burned the flat down. She'd gotten to her feet, and screamed and screamed at him. No words, just a shrill noise driving nails into his skull. The firefighters Mrs. Hudson had called nearly dragged Sherlock away from the house when he yelled back at her, the same loud sound. Molly wouldn't stand for Sherlock being taken away, and had pitched a fit about it. She had grabbed at his clothes, yanking him back to her, and it was the closest they'd been for a long time. The two of them looked like a right pair of lunatics, and they had a live-in with them for two weeks. Apparently they were functional, but only just.)

 

He eats, because if he doesn't, Molly doesn't. He sets her plate on the coffee table, and she eats on the sofa. He eats, sitting on the floor across from her. On normal days, it's the closest they get. On the normal days, they barely look at each other.

 

He stays up. He tinkers with his microscope. On the days where they've had a shock, he sits and watches the telly with her. Whatever show she has on. Her taste in television has gotten better, though he suspects that it's not a good thing. She watches documentaries. He hasn't heard those singing teenagers in ages.

 

He goes to bed, and doesn't sleep. He'd gotten so used to sleeping with a body beside his, and even after all this time... it's difficult. He doesn't sleep, but when he does, it's plagued with nightmares, with bodies crawling out of their drawers at the morgue ... trying to run away but never being able to run fast enough ... the monster that lingers in the shadows of the stair, engulfing him in darkness when he walks through the door into the flat and not the kitchen...

 

And he wakes to screaming. On the normal days, he does. On the bad days, he wakes her with his screaming. She doesn't go to him when he screams, but he goes to her. She's taken to the sofa for sleeping, because she refuses to go back into their room. She'll have the throw blanket tucked right up to her chin, legs curled up in fetal position. He hushes her and soothes her, calling out her name. Every time, he wants to hold her in his arms... but they're not ready yet. And every time it happens, he starts believing the idea that they are incapable of independence more and more. Because this wasn't living. It was barely getting by. This was... a waste. He's watching everything wither. And he doesn't have the energy to do anything about it.

 

They were still in that cold basement, knowing that they'd never name their baby.

 

* * *

 

 

"John's here,"

 

"Hm," Sherlock hums, organizing for one of Lestrade's team to go out.

 

"He wants to talk to you," Lestrade pushes.

 

"Busy."

 

"Well, how about he just talks at you and you pretend you absorbed it in your own stoic way," Lestrade stashes his hands in his pockets, and leaves the office.

 

Sherlock's fingers curl above the keyboard of the computer, just for a moment. Then, he forces them straight and sends the memo along to Donovan. He hears the door open, and doesn't look up. It closes, and John Watson steps right in front of him.

 

Six months it's been since Sherlock saw him. It was his own fault, sending the man, his best friend, away. He couldn't, he couldn't, he couldn't, he couldn't- he could only take care of one thing at a time. John had gained weight. Domestic life suits him, Sherlock notes. Him and Mary and their two kids. Three, Sherlock realizes. John's been out shopping late for Mary, what with the bags under his eyes but the lack of other sleep deprivation signs. He's happy to go do so for his wife. Rage boils up inside him, and he surges to his feet. The chair scrapes on the ground behind him, and nearly topples over.

 

Before he can speak though, John puts his hand forward. More specifically, the card in his hand.

 

"Therapy," he says. His voice is different too. Lower, more gravel to it, "I think you should go."

 

"Get out,"

 

"You may hate her, but Ella Thompson wasn't wrong about my PTSD. She's an expert in it. Go see her. I'll take care of the money,"

 

"N-"

 

"Sherlock. It's been six months. You said you'd get better, but you haven't. Go."

 

The detective stares, and stares, and stares. And stares. John has made his point, so he stays silent and still, face passive but insistent. The card is still in John's steady hand, waiting, expecting. Sherlock lets out a breath, and its slow, shaky. He looks down at the outstretched hand, and takes the card, pinching it between his middle finger and thumb. John doesn't linger. He gives a nod, straightens his shoulder, and leaves.

 

Sherlock stands and stares at the card until it's time to go home.

 

* * *

 

 

He walks home after the appointment with Ella Thompson. Collar turned up, face burrowed nose-deep into his scarf. He unlocks the door at 20:23. Mrs. Hudson is nowhere to be seen, but he can hear her tinkering in her flat with the- yes, her kettle. He goes up the stairs, through the kitchen door. He stands, and stares at the fridge, realizing with a pang that he'd forgotten to take dinner from Lestrade. He shakes his head, and strips his coat off, putting it over the back of the chair. He turns, and steps into the living room.

 

The living room is empty. Molly's gone, gone, gone, gone, gone, gone, _gone, gone, **GONE-**_

 

"Molly," he tries, but his throat is sore. He tries again, his voice louder than he thought it would be, "Molly!"

 

He turns and bolts into the bedroom, hands violently shaking as he turns the knob. Again, the woman, his wife, his wife Molly, Molly's gone-

 

"Molly!"

 

He runs again, searching in the bathroom, casts about the living room. He turns on the spot, and his gaze finds the door to the stairs. He stops. And freezes. It's been opened. He steps forwards, and stops.

 

"Molly," he tries again, his voice barely escaping. He steps forwards, and again, and again, and stands at the door.

 

The staircase stares back at him. The monster waiting behind the door, the reason why the kitchen door is so goddamn vital to his existence, to breathing, to living, to barely functional, to-to-to-to-to-

 

He needs Molly more than his sanity. And that's why he takes hold of the railing. Doesn't let himself breathe, because if he does, it'll shake him to his core, makes his legs so wobbly that he won't be able to go further. He has to find her. He has to find her. He puts one foot on the first step, and climbs the stairs. One right after the other, no time to pause. Up up up, until he makes it to the open door.

 

The nursery is the same as they left it. Pale yellow walls. The same as they were when, once upon a time, John Watson had lived in the room. A long drawer with a vanity sits along the wall, the top of it wrapped in small railings. A crib sits in one corner, lined with a plain white sheet. It's nothing special, but it makes his knees quiver. Beside it, in the creaky old rocking chair that was her father's, Molly sits. She must have been dozing off, because she blinks. Once, twice, thrice, and stares at him like she's uncertain if he's real. He stumbles forwards, drawn by her gaze, until his legs give out, and he collapses at her feet. He pushes his face into her right knee, and lets out a breath that is too shaky, too wet, too desperate. After a minute, when it's clear that neither of them are going anywhere, she pushes her hand into his hair.

 

There used to be a time when they believed the silence would be broken by the sound of a baby's cry.

 

"We can't go on like this," Sherlock says, and Molly breaks down.

 

* * *

 

 

There's a private house, out in Brightwell. It costs nothing to Sherlock, though he suspects that's to do with Big Brother... literally. It was domestic enough. White walls, blue shutters. Two stories, large enough for the couple and a live-in. There's another pair of caretakers that come in, but they've chosen to take up rent closer into the village. Sherlock spots the gate as they pass through it, and turns to watch it close behind them. They walk into the house, take a tour around, and go into their own bedrooms, on either side of the house. Breakfast is at seven, lunch at twelve, dinner at six. Sherlock and Molly see each other at these meals, but other than that they're apart, and Sherlock suspects that this is thoroughly on purpose. He feels as though there's a sudden wedge, and he's suddenly not close to her enough.

 

He's in therapy for the majority of the day. Therapy includes talking about...  it, but he's also subjected to sitting and watching the rain, and that might be the worst. He still wakes to her screaming, and he still falls in the kitchen sometimes, but the difference is that they can't go to each other, and that might be the worst. He can feel it physically, mentally, emotionally. He's losing love for her and that might be the worst of all.

 

* * *

 

 

At dinner, their live-in, Patricia, asks Sherlock to tell Molly about the ducks. He frowns, stopping his picking at food.

 

"I don't understand," he says, waiting a moment before he looks up.

 

Patricia smiles, and tucks her fork underneath a pile of rice briskly. As she does, she says, "On our walk today. There were ducks in the lake. Tell her about the ducks,"

 

"What do you want me to say?"

 

"Anything you'd like," Patricia assures him. Then, she leans in, with a smile on her face like she's sharing an inside joke with a child, "Just make sure it's about the birds,"

 

"That's idiotic," he blurts out, "What sort of moronic psychology book did you get that stupid technique from?"

 

"Sherlock, it will-"

 

They're both stunned silent when a peal of laughter breaks through the air. Their heads spin around, and they both look at Molly. Molly's mouth is squirming, being uncomfortable with the sudden attention, but she is smiling nonetheless.

 

After the moment of shock passes, Sherlock smiles back.

 

* * *

 

 

"Isn't there anything we can do to..."

 

"What? Speed this along? Mr. Holmes, empires aren't built in a week. And nothing is rebuilt the same."

 

Sherlock is sitting at the top of the stairs where he can't be seen, sitting the way he did when he used to listen to Father yell at Mummy. Legs tightly pressed together, hands folded in his lap. Downstairs, his brother is being scolded by the live-in. He wants to bring Sherlock and Molly back to London, and the detective can feel his veins singing to the tune of the idea. He wants to go home, damn the sentiment, damn the juvenility. Home is safe, home is warmth, home is bright, home is... fucking hell, home is home. And it's better than wasting away here.

 

At least he's spending time being angry. It feels better than numb.

 

"Are they still refusing to speak?" Mycroft's voice is urgent. Sherlock's hands tighten into fists, nails digging into skin.

 

"No no, they do... Sherlock does. Molly's... she's getting close. I've seen when people want to speak. She wants to, but it's been a while. You need to give them time."

 

"I don't understand."

 

Sherlock feels a smirk inside of him when he hears the protesting whine in his brother's voice. The house makes children out of normal people too. That was some good news.

 

Patricia makes a little huff noise, her patience wearing thin, "Mr. Holmes, it seems as though you are severely underestimating the trauma they went through!"

 

"I understand depression, Mrs. Appling, but this seems a bit-"

 

"Depression does not even begin to cover their diagnosis, Mr. Holmes!" the live-in hisses, "Where do I begin? Compassion fatigue, severe post traumatic stress, emotional dysregulation, and the fact that we still can't discern from either patient whether or not we need to be considering postpartum-!"

 

Sherlock's fingers find their way into his hair, and he curls his chest to his legs. Still, listening attentively, rocking slowly

 

"It's been seven months since the-" Mycroft says.

 

"Yes, seven months, and I've only had one month helping them! And you know what? Maybe we'll be needing another seven! However, they have to get through this in their own time, and going back when progress is only now being made will be counter-productive. I will have to ask you to leave. When the time is right, we will call you."

 

"But-"

 

"You'll be a part of the healing process, Mr. Holmes. But we're not there yet. They're recovering from a stressful hostage situation and the loss of their child. "

 

There’s a shifting, and Sherlock hears Mycroft standing up, “I see. Thank you, Mrs. Appling,”

 

"Your brother is going to be okay, Mycroft," Patricia assures, and there's a silence for a long time.

 

Sherlock takes his leave then, getting onto his hands and knees, and managing to his feet. He straightens himself up, and finds Molly standing at the door of her bedroom. She stares at him, and then holds her door a little more open. Inviting.

 

He blinks, hard, twice, and turns to go into his room.

 

* * *

 

 

"Molly's started talking again,"

 

Sherlock's head perks up so quickly that he's close to whiplash. The therapist (father of four, originally wanted to be an addictions counselor - close enough - walked down the driveway this morning instead of driving up, meaning he took the bus up the road, one car house, his wife uses it to drive out into the city) fiddles the pen in his hand, and clicks the end of it on his clipboard.

 

"What-" Sherlock swallows, and with a slight shake of his head, tries again, "What has she said?"

 

"Not much, although not much is remarkably more than not at all. She mentioned missing the way things used to be. She wanted me to pass on a message. That she's sorry, for all of this,"

 

"This wasn't-!" Sherlock snaps, his hand tightening into a fist on top of the arm rest. He stops, and simply glares at the therapist. Eliciting anger on purpose. But the idea of being angry with Molly makes him feel sick to his stomach. So why on earth would the bastard dare and try? He fastens his jaw tight, calming himself down before going on, "Her. This wasn't her fault,"

 

"She believes that it wasn't fair of her to not talk while you were trying so hard to make things... 'better',"

 

"Better," Sherlock murmurs, letting his hand unclench.

 

* * *

 

 

Two months into living at the private house, a tv is, belatedly, installed in the living room. Patricia, who has been letting them spend more time together, sits and knits in the chair tucked in the corner. Molly goes back to watching tv as she did before. She's on the couch, watching that singing teenager show that he hates. With their stupid, squeaky voices and god, of course he's not the father, not with that sweater!

 

Sherlock sits and complains the entire time from the other side of the couch. He notices the soft smile on Patricia's face, but he makes nothing of it.

 

* * *

 

 

The worst part of being with her all the time is the screaming. Sherlock never heard Molly when she has an attack, not when she's awake, but she screams, and screams, screams, screams, _screams,_ _screams, **screams, SCREAMS-**_

 

And she begs for him. He hasn't heard her speak for months, and now that he's with her all the time, he hears her scream, and scream out his name. He hears her beg for the baby, not mine, please, no, _no, NO, let me hold him, let me see him, please pl-ease, Sherlock, **Sherlock!**_

 

He curls up with his knees to his chest and pulls at his hair until it stops.

 

The worst part of being with her all the time is that he can't go to her when it matters to her.

 

* * *

 

 

"So Sherlock," Patricia says as she always does at dinner, "How was your walk?"

 

"The ducks were fine, if that's what you mean."

 

Molly snorts into her soup, and Sherlock sits up a little straighter in his chair. He hasn't heard her talk yet, but if he keep making her smile, maybe he'll love something again.

 

* * *

 

 

Molly sits up quickly when the door creaks open. It's dark still, moonlight barely drifting through the lacy curtains of her temporary bedroom. Sherlock is barely discernible in the dim light, but she still can catch the look of surprise on his face.

 

After a moment stretches into a silence, and she's sure he's going to turn away, he steps into the room. Slowly, quietly, he places a folded piece of paper on her bedside table. He remains still for a moment, bent over the table, before he murmurs, "Go back to sleep, darling."

 

He looks up then, and Molly swallows nervously. His mouth presses into a thin line. He nods, a jerky twitch of his chin, and hurries out of her room. She allows herself to sink back into the bed, staring at the door.

 

And when she wakes up with the sun rise, she finds a Good Morning etched on a folded piece of paper on her bedside table.

 

* * *

 

 

"You should be considering postpartum,"

 

The therapist stares and stares at Sherlock. Finally, he clears his throat and shakes his head, "I'm sorry, what do you mean, Sherlock?"

 

"For Molly. I heard Patricia talking about it with my brother. You should be considering postpartum. The baby was born before-" he sucks in a sharp breath, his eyelids fluttering, then he clamps his teeth down on the side of his cheek. He clings to the edge of the armrests.

 

Silence hangs like a swinging noose in the room.

 

"Sherlock?" the therapist (father of four, Sherlock hopes the man knows how vehemently jealous he is of him) asks gently, leaning his elbows against the desk.

 

"We didn't get to name the baby. We never thought- we wanted it to be a surprise-" He leans forwards, but doesn't allow himself the luxury of becoming a ball, becoming small. He clings to the arm rests and heaves for breath. He hears the therapist call for help, but he sits and tries to breathe.

 

The world doesn't sit right on his lungs.

 

* * *

 

 

The first time she goes on one of his walks, it's the first time she's been outside for weeks. She looks beautiful with sunlight on her, her hair let down. Autumn looks beautiful behind her as she walks. She laughs when she finds that there are actual ducks in the lake that they walk along. He beams, and grabs her hand, wanting to show her the weeping willow tree across the lake. Her laugh cuts short when she jerks her hand away from his touch and stares at him, baffled. He stumbles and stutters until he's finally able to apologize.

 

The walk back to the house is utterly embarrassing.

 

* * *

 

 

It is a great deal when he is surprised, but he is utterly floored when Patricia says that John and Mary are coming over for dinner. It's a stupid idea, he knows it's a stupid idea. When he saw John that day he had given the therapist's card, he'd known about Mary and her third pregnancy, he'd seen it. If he was correct, she would nearly ready to pop. Molly isn't ready, he thinks. Then again, he isn't ready to see anything of the like either. But nonetheless, he stands in the living room as Patricia answers the door. Molly sits on the couch, worrying her bottom lip. The door opens, and Mr. and Mrs. Watson come in.

 

The couple have a pair of matching, shining smiles. John has wine. Mary has a flat belly.

 

"Molly! Sherlock!" Mary squeals happily, and she, unabashed, swoops in to embrace Molly. Molly returns the hug, as John comes forwards and shakes Sherlock's hand.

 

"Looking good, old dog," he remarks, and Sherlock manages to smile and not say anything.

 

Dinner goes smoothly. John talks about work, Mary corrects him, Sherlock tells them both everything they need to know about their employers, and Molly doesn't talk at all. When it's time to go, Mary turns her warm embrace to Sherlock. He hugs her back just a little harder than he normally would.

 

"It's okay, I'm okay," Mary murmurs, knowing why he does.

 

He pulls away, meets her gaze, and tells her, "Do we look _okay_ to you?"

 

* * *

 

 

The door creaking open has Molly shifting around in her sleep, and she groggily awakes as Sherlock sits down gingerly at the edge of the bed.

 

"Molly?" he murmurs, quiet in case she was still asleep. She blinks, and hums in acknowledgement. The very sound sends a spike of energy through Sherlock. He shifts in his spot, and sits a little straighter.

 

"I... _miss_ you," he forces out the words, taking up his willpower to get the message across. It's slow, and carefully processed, and Molly hates the sound of it. The Usain Bolt of words, her husband, degenerated to tiptoeing around landmines.

 

He looks at her, eyes wider than they used to be, imploring her to speak. She closes her mouth, swallows, and opens her mouth. She tries, she does. She looks at Sherlock, who seems to become more and more desperate the harder she tries.

 

"Molly, please," he begs, and she tears up. She wants to say something, but for the life of her can't think of anything to say. Sherlock makes a hushing sound, and tries to brush her tears away, but she bats at his hands.

 

"Stop it, just stop it!" she hisses, and they both freeze. She stares at him, mouth bobbing, her apology trapped behind her teeth. He stares at their hands, their fingers caught and intertwining together.

 

He stutters, "I-I'm sorry, I-"

 

He cuts off and looks up at her as if she had interrupted him. His hands release hers, jerking away quickly. He stands up, shaking his head, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry-"

 

Molly scrambles out of bed, reaching for him, but he shakes his head, apologizing over and over where she cannot. Just as his hand panics around the doorknob, ready to turn away and leave, she grabs him, and presses herself into the wrinkles of his clothes, burying herself in him until she can't breathe.

 

"I'm sorry," he gasps out, and clings to her.

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock runs away the next morning. He's brought on a walk with the caretaker, like a bloody dog, and just as they round a hedge to the lake, he spots a row of trees, and just... runs. He's spent so long walking, that the soles of his feet have grown thick in strength. He just wants to rub the soles away, his feet, his legs, his torso, his head, until he disappears entirely. He manages to do precisely so, hiding in the shrubbery until he's found by the therapist and a police officer.

 

"Sherlock, why did you run away?" the therapist asks.

 

And he, for the life of him, does not know.

 

* * *

 

 

Patricia has music playing in the kitchen as she cooks. She's preparing spaghetti with Molly, who makes a damn good sauce. Sherlock's called in to help with the salad, and he reluctantly tosses lettuce beside Molly.

 

"John and Mary called again, they'd love to come over for dinner. Aggie's said-"

 

"Who?" Sherlock cut in, frowning.

 

"Mrs. Hudson," Patricia says without missing a beat, continuing on, "said that she'd love to come along next time, wouldn't that be nice?"

 

Molly sniggers, and Sherlock glances at her in surprise. After a moment, he nudges her, playfully saying, "Oh, shut up."

 

She only laughs harder, which makes him smile. Molly stops abruptly, and his heart sinks into his chest. Oh no, he did it again, he messed it all up- wait. In the silence, a trail of notes dance through.

 

_"Stars shining bright above you_

_Night breezes seem to whisper, I love you..."_

 

Molly clears her throat, and asks, "M-may I be excused to my room?"

 

Patricia, confusion on her face, reluctantly nods, "Alright. That's fine."

 

Molly drops the spoon in her hand and all but runs out of the kitchen. Sherlock stares at the space she leaves behind, mouth pressed into a thin line. When Patricia touches his elbow, he tears himself out of the contact, and turns away from her. He leans on the counter, elbows locked straight, and he takes a moment to breathe.

 

"What's wrong, Sherlock?" Patricia asks.

 

"It's our wedding song. Excuse me," he turns and leaves to go find Molly.

 

* * *

 

 

At lunch, when Molly walks into the room, Sherlock notes that her socks are too big for her. He gives Patricia a knowing look. The live-in merely sets out their meals, and sits down before them.

 

"So," she asks brightly, "How are the ducks?"

 

Molly chuckles, but instead of joining her, Sherlock answers truthfully.

 

"They've gone and flown off,"

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock wakes up with a Good Morning written on a folded piece of paper on his bedside table. He picks it up, brushing the bottom right corner with his thumb. Then, the corner of his lip quirks up and he hits the paper against his hand. He murmurs as he gets out of bed, "Right then, right then,"

 

* * *

 

 

_Tap._

 

Molly shifts in her sleep, her nose twitching.

 

_Tap._

 

She hums for a moment, eyes fluttering as she wakes up.

 

_Tap tap._

 

She rolls onto her back and sits up slowly, looking around the room. Something had woken her up, a sound, a... what? Where was it coming from?

 

**_Clunk._ **

 

She gives a soft yelp, covering her mouth with a hand while the other tightens in her blanket. A dark shape had hit her window. She waits, staring at the glass, until a tiny tap was brought to life by a pebble knocking. Molly leaps to her feet, racing to the window.

 

On the ground, Sherlock stood with a clenched fist, presumably holding a pile of rocks. He looked disgruntled, shuffling his foot against the frost covered ground. He was bundled up in the winter coat given to him and a thick, burgundy scarf that hugged his cheekbones and scooped to his chin. He looked as though he was muttering to himself. Molly couldn't help but smile, and opened her window. At the sound, the man's head perked up, his pale eyes wide at the sight of her. His mouth bobs for a moment, until finally he calls up.

 

"Come for a walk with me,"

 

Molly stares, then lets out a laugh. A nice, long laugh of utter disbelief. She looks down at him, mouth open but utterly speechless.

 

"How did you get down there?" she finally whispers.

 

"The woman's asleep, it's not like it's hard to sneak past her room," he says, and it surprises another smile out of her.

 

"Alright... stay there,"

 

"I will," he promises, and she closes her window quickly.

 

She rushes to her drawers, pulling out the first clothes she gets her hands on. After dressing, she creaks her door open. The entire house seems louder in the silence, with pipes rattling and floorboards groaning underneath her fragile steps. She winces with each step, and after she manages to reach the staircase, just races the rest of the way down to the front door. She tugs on a pair of boots, a hat, and a coat, and she opens the door - just as Sherlock opens it on the other side. It bumps against her forehead, and she ends up squeaking in surprise. He holds out a hand as if to touch her head, but she waves him away, grinning. He joins in, and after closing the door behind them, they disappear down a well trodden path, giggling like a pair of school children.

 

"Where are we going?" she asks, pushing her hands into her pockets to keep them from going blue.

 

"I..." he pauses, then mimics her action. He huffs out a breath of laughter and says, "I don't really know. It's stifling in there, isn't it?"

 

She smiles, and looks at the ground. The dirt had gone stiff in the chill of winter's foreshadow, and the grass was tinted with white frost. She idly kicks at a bit of grass, dusting the cold off to make the green last. Sherlock leads the way up a well worn path, winding into a small grove of trees, which opens to a wider field that sits by the lake. On the other side, the untamed forest seems ominous in the dark.

 

"There's a willow this way," Sherlock mentions, pointing to the other side of the water. She can't see what he's talking about, so she gestures for him to show her. He leads her over a bank of rocks, taking her hand in his own gloved one to help her balance. As soon as they're back on the grass, she clasps her hands together, breathing warm air into the hollow between her palms. Sherlock hesitates, looking uncertain, but she takes his hand again and he looks as if he could melt. He tightens his grip, just for a moment, and they continue on.

 

They come across a tree, its branches barren, frost glued between the bark. Sherlock looks almost disappointed, but then he turns to Molly and smiles.

 

"No more weeping," he says, and after a moment, her eyes water. Sherlock moves quickly, his hands cupping her face, and she grabs at his hands. The flood gates open, and she talks.

 

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry for crying," she starts whispering, getting louder with each word, "I don't know why, I'm sorry, I'm sorry-"

 

"Don't, _don't_ ," he says it like it's meant to be an order, but she shakes her head, turning her face towards his left palm, and kissing it over and over.

 

"I could have done something, I could have saved him, our little boy-"

 

"Don't you dare, Molly Holmes," Sherlock says, demanding her innocence when she refuses to, "This was me, all me, just stop crying, shh, don't-"

 

"I will when you do!" she protests, yanking herself away. Molly points at the tree, and yells, "I'll stop weeping when you do!"

 

He stops, and stares at her as if she were a ghost. Perhaps she was. Perhaps she really did die back in that basement, as opposed to simply her hope, her light, her very soul. How could Sherlock not know? He stares at her, until her heart simply breaks because he never knew he was crying.

 

"Oh, Sherlock," she says, with pity in her voice and her eyes and her body, and he stumbles into her arms, clinging to her. She tightens her arms around him, struggling to adjust.

 

“I still love you,” he insists, “I didn’t say- _I still love you_ , Molly,”

 

“Sherlock,” she murmurs back, her hand stroking his hair, and she cries into his shoulder.

 

* * *

 

 

Winter happens. He never realized it was starting, so when snow falls, Sherlock is, surprisingly, surprised. It's a merciless, ruthless winter, and every day is a cold one. The kind of day where anyone would agree that the best thing to do would be to curl up in front of a fire and wait for the frost to pass.

 

And, a year after they were taken from their flat, and they were shaken to their very core, Molly and Sherlock sit in front of the fireplace at 221B and do precisely that.


End file.
